I shouldve known
to better leave the gaps
between my fingers just gaps.
To not fill the space between my lips
when it's slightly parted.
To not fill my nose with your scent.
To not fill my mind with thoughts of you.
To not fill the emptiness
with something in your form.
Because whole things,
complete pieces ,
only know how to break.

you promised me
that if i stared at the moon
long enough
i would find myself the face of a man.
but i know all the faces
the moon wears,
and the spectacle of stars
that sparkle on her hair.
Tonight,it's just this one.
an honest expression.
there's no meaning tonight,
only truth -only hurt.
Tonight, there's only this city
under a shattered moon.
Tonight, im crying myself to sleep again.

what i know about my sadness is that it is clumsy.
i still keep finding the things
it left behind.
on places where it shouldn't belong.
and like a fool, i still claim them.

I wish for the emptiness,insecurities, and hatred to leave.
And leave nothing but their footprints,
their sound and their silence.
A little reminder that they were once here.
Like some of my friends.
I wish to thank them soon for leaving.
Because apparently,
I only have a few room in my heart-
for one thing or another.
And it could no longer be
for things
that doesnt wish to stay.

sometimes,
i hate the world
for still going on,
like it has
completely forgotten
about what happened to us.


Like it has
completely forgotten  
about people like us.

you cant always make pain leave.
it knows its directions.
it knows how to follow you home.
pain knows its way to your sheets.
it knows which side of the pillow is colder.
if it ever visits you tonight
just let it in,
lead it to the blank pages
of a notebook.
there,
it will stay.
between these lines,
this is where it stays.

i am sometimes tired.
of feeling too much
or feeling too little
and of filling the gaps of my ribs
with  uneasy breaths.
i could not explain it,
-that tiredness sometimes
reach beyond bones.
and i am tired of carrying it.
and im always scared
of the many ways that a body
could give in to it.
of the fact that a heart knows nothing
but to beat.
and how it also knows
when to just stop.
im not sad, just scared.
and im sometimes tired
all the **** time.

𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠?
𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚙𝚜
𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗
𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠
𝚠𝚑ich 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑ich 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝.
𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍
𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜
𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠
𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜.
𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚙𝚜
𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗
𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜
𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎
𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚝,
𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠
𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎.

And i like to think
that the wind carries
our songs, prayers and silent pleas  and it ends up somewhere.
Maybe it moves the clouds
to other places
or sways the trees.
sometimes they rustle or shake
as if to answer.
as if to say ,
"we heard you, you are not alone"

this body will never know
that the sea surface
could also be  gentle and kind.
it will only know
the sea's hunger for
things it could claim.
but then again,maybe,
this body was not built
for such gentleness and kindness.
this body was made to sink.
it knows that sunken cities
dont kiss the ocean floor
in a haste.
it knows because
it has been doing it
for years,
- slow,passionate.
all those towering dreams
it spent on building
some unpaved asphalt roads,
some rooms full of strangers,
some quiet places,
some homes made with strength,
some little cosmos patches.
All drowning and sinking.
Just because
i was too afraid to swim.


//but maybe atlantis is a home for lost,hopeless people like me.

Tell everyone everywhere,
The things i used to think at night,
The shallow and the hollow,
Rest deep inside my mind,

The longer I dwell, the harder I stare,
The abyss becomes a puddle,
My mind which used to be an ocean,
Can now never reach the shore.

in one of my dreams,
I was a witch.
burning .
at the stakes.
prodded by pitchforks.
stabbed with daggers
behind my back.
the talking was loud.
their hateful eyes were louder.
then i woke up
realizing the thin line
between dreams
and consciousness.
it almost made no difference.
ive seen those eyes somewhere.
of those who want to
burn me at the stakes ;
stab me with daggers
behind my back.
always been wanting to
watch
me
fall.
darling, I am a witch
you could not burn.

When I was born,
they had to cut my mother.
I guess it says a lot about me.
I don't quite fit in.

my neighbor likes her fresh laundry smelling like flowers.
the scent wafts through the air and hurts my lungs as i lay inside my room making what i sometimes call poetry.
today, i dont like it.
it reminds me of dying.
it reminds me of the flowers
that people who love me  will someday leave by my grave.
or even the wild ones that will grow out of it.
maybe there will be plenty
or maybe there will be none.
but today, the flowers had waltzed into my room
and people are dying fast enough.  
Today, im closing the windows shut.

Regret never leaves.
we only ever know how to dress it
and  make it easier to carry around.
my regrets are familiar figures under tulle .
they dance at the corners
of my periphery.
if i had chosen differently,a bit wisely-
will these ghosts still haunt me?
or will it all be the same?
just another ghost
with just another pretty face.

somewhere along the sunsets
i have lost my motivation.
and the lines written
on the palm of my hands have faded
from holding unto warm coffee cups
and false hopes.
i never really liked the taste of coffee.
but it's the only thing that reminds me
of this tiny beating thing inside my chest.
the horizon has seen too many sunsets.
too many things that surrendered to star littered darkness.
yet here i am, with a tiny flicker of hope.
this would have to make do.

you remind me of matches.
the matches that dont just kiss.
the matches that crave for friction.
we crash ceaselessly
and burn on each other's skins.
we turn into ashes.
and do it all over again.
you remind me of matches.
and how it feels to be something alive.

I should stop this fruitless job
‎of keeping obsolete little things
‎that never did
‎anything good for me.
‎Maybe i should start
‎by unfolding old unsent letters
‎bare from the enthusiasm i used to
‎envelope them in.
‎Then, i'll throw away pretty glass bottles,
emptied by their contents
‎of sweet perfumes and wild dreams.
‎Pick up plastic beads ,
‎loose from the strings tied
by friendships
‎i used to wrap around my wrists.
‎I should discard useless trinkets,
‎cute nothings and dead mementos.
‎Declutter and make room-
‎for other things ,
‎like self-appreciation,
‎growth,love
  and
‎maybe a pen
‎ or two.

does growing up
ever hurt for you?
because for me,
it did.
i wasn't really quite prepared
for losing my shell
losing that child-like innocence ,
and losing .
but i did.
and i did it unrelentingly.
Then i lost enough to make a sea.

In that sea of everything you lost
you see yourself bobbing
on the waves.
gasping for air.
it doesn't come.
and in the sea of things you've lost,
saltwater will fill your lungs
until the sea becomes you.

there are days
i only feel like a burden.
someone who fills backseats
so that someone could be at the front.
and the weight of my own bones
are too heavy for a family name to carry.
heavy enough to crush a sorry girl.
my breaths are sometimes apologies
people refuse to hear.
im sorry if i am this way.
i wish i could be something more.

i have forced myself
to fit into different skins
so many times ;
like how water takes the
shape of its containers.

how many persons
do i have to become
before i could truly
become myself?

worry, has memorized my name.
it says it every night
and makes it hard for me to sleep.
i memorized the name of my worries.
i say it every night.
my heart was never ready
for the burden of names.
my mind collects these sounds,
until it softens into delicate murmurs.
someday, i will have to unlearn them.
until it becomes a dead language
i have forgotten to speak.

Back in elementary, we were taught how to add the suffix "-ed" or use "was" to indicate that a verb is in its past tense.

At some point of my life, I found myself crushed at the weight of such simple words. I can comprehend what these words imply wherever they may sit in the order of words in a sentence, but I can now never let them slip away without wondering about the why's.

Why is it not here anymore? Why must it end?

There's nothing there anymore but the absence I cannot help but feel and burden upon myself.

At the same time I understood it completely. That the only justification for it was the fact that life has to go on, even if it may hurt you because you are not ready.

I was never ready for it.

And now I'm here, making a big deal out of verbs in their past tense.

God, I used to be very happy.

I wish there's also a meaning in the silence that lingers between us.
Hanging like a held breath.
I guess there are things too big for words.
Things you cannot simply put into symbols.
Things incapable of translation.
Sometimes they take shape.
In the form of spaces between two bodies.
Toothbrushes no longer touching.
Empty sofabeds on friday nights.
I guess there are things too big for words.  
In some kind of way,
there is no use for it either.
In some kind of way, i understand.
As if silence, was our mother tongue.
And we both spoke it a little too well

sweet little girl,
here's your silly paper boat
we hastily folded on a sunday afternoon
with the sun so hot outside
you swore it could burn all of our sins
to crisp.
here's your silly paper boat,
that melts upon water's kisses-
so you offer your body
to the river instead
then we would float on the water
like dead men.
and you swore it was easier that way.
here's your silly paper boat
sinking the way it should
on the pool of your own blood.
sweet little girl,
you were like your silly paper boat.
weightless and
so tired of sinking.

for you, ill tell the tales that your hands had left on my spine when we kissed .
how philosophy and language that the world stands upon seem to crumble
under the weight of two bodies
not ever wanting to let go.  
this is how i forget about the walls
that kept us apart for too long.
this is how we forget about the stars,
and leave the constellations on our backs.
this is how London bridge falls
as they all melt into the background.
as reality shifts into nothing
but lips, and an endless stretch of skin.
touching and breathing.
too much and never enough.
this is how i die and go back to life.
For you, a thousand times over.

the truth is,
not everyone is good at this.
not every breath goes in
without getting caught in your throat.
no hands are ever good at holding on,
especially when
everything seems to just slip away.
some eyes never run dry
and some hearts never seem to
run out of pieces that break.

in storybook endings ,
the princesses
found their princes.
The valiant heroes
chases away all the dragons.
The lost would find
their way home.
And people would find
what they've lost.
But then, whatever happened
to those who fell in love
with the dragons instead?
The damsels,
who became too comfortable
with their own distress?

you just started fading away
like colors left under the sun
for too long.
Sorry.
I didnt mean to.

I wonder why I  keep putting my own doubts and fears before everything else my hearts says.
Like I'm the songs in my playlist that I always skip.

a lot could happen
in the months within a year.
and a lot could happen
in the weeks within a month.
a lot could still happen
in the days within a week.
and lot could happen
in the hours within a day.
if a lot could happen
in the minutes within an hour,
then maybe a lot could still happen
in the seconds within a minute.
if maybe within the gaps
between those seconds
you could still find time
to think about me again,
maybe a second is all
that i could ever need.
A second could be enough.

How do i end this?
How do you get out from something
that rattles your ribs almost every night,
and render your thoughts useless on the bathroom floor?
How far can one fall from grace?
How deep do cuts run?
How do you crawl out of something
that you've carried alone for so long
it almost feels like a second skin?
How many nights should I still spend
on writing letters that burn my hands?
How do you forget ?


- how do you go on?

when the sun
kisses the sea orange,
my father comes home with sawdust
caked underneath his nails.
i remember how my mother
brushes them clean
until the water becomes yellowish,
like the sun.
That night, we will tuck ourselves in.
But i'll still be left at dusks.
wishing for that very same one,
where their worries would recede,
like the orange.
Where they will not have to think
about tomorrow
too much.

Sleep calls from a distance
I turn; on a bed of yesterday's tears
and tomorrow's dreams.
The weight of their expectations
lies heavy like a nursing baby
on my chest.
I do not want it.
I'm afraid the bed is too small
for the both of us.

my hands are full
and my fingers are breaking
for counting my sins
and all of my flaws.
so i apologize
if couldnt hold myself together.

My mother's been asking me
about where I've been.
But I'm a younger version of her
with my father's eyes
and a tongue of my own.

The sun painted my skin
the same color as the history
of skins before me.
The same stretch insecurities carved
too lightly; for now.

My name is from the people before me;
Am I supposed to carry their ghosts when they leave?
How heavy does a name weigh?
Especially when it sounds like expectations?

"how could something so twisted be so good?"